


Flowers weep too, beautifully fragile being, but you know you're your own flower press

by Starsong



Category: Hollow Knight (Video Games)
Genre: Angst, Anxiety Attacks, Before the Sealing, Crying, Flowers, Gen, Hurt No Comfort, Pre-Canon, The White Palace, is this why people don't read this? i thought we were all here for Hollow angst xD, okay there is a bit of comfort actually
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-10-16
Updated: 2020-10-16
Packaged: 2021-03-08 20:40:25
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings, No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,144
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/27032833
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Starsong/pseuds/Starsong
Summary: A Pure Vessel, rested in their cloak, rested against white, against shadow, against softness. Why do you weep, dear child?
Comments: 14
Kudos: 55





	Flowers weep too, beautifully fragile being, but you know you're your own flower press

**Author's Note:**

> Hello, thanks for checking this out. The summary is wack, I know but I'm always so stumped trying to come up with a good one, so I'm just winging it.
> 
> This is me channeling all of my anguish into my favourite character, okay? I don't even know why I did this, I just know I wrote this in like 4 hours yesterday, Starset in the background (specifically Monster on a loop every once in a while) and then edited it today.
> 
>  **WARNINGS** : This work contains a somewhat explicit description of an anxiety attack, a lot of self-doubt and self-blaming. If any of this might affect you, please be careful, don't push yourself even if you're just curious. No pronoun disrespect here, btw.
> 
> This is basically a re-hash of the anxiety attack I had two days ago, but it's also quite self-indulgent. Who would have thought going without human contact for about 7 months would mess me up so badly, hmmmm. I heckin' miss hugs, people, I miss them fiercely. Happy heckin' bday, me xD
> 
> Oh, as for the writing style, which reads so weirdly, it's intentionally messy and all over the place. It seems I can only write like this when it comes to HK fanfics lmao. And, as a note, the mannequin idea is taken from the "Everything I ever thought I knew" animatic on YouTube. Check it out, it's so so good!!
> 
> Please enjoy!

The door clinks shut behind them, a soft and quiet sound.

Their room is dark, darker than the hallway, darkest in the Palace. Pale light spills in through the slim and tall archways, not too bright but not too shallow.

They move forward mechanically, one foot in front of the other, inaudible and heavy.

Pure Nail in hand, the Pure Vessel turns and steps inside their armoury. It is a small room, furnished with a stand for their armour, a closet for their outing cloaks and the wall supports for their weapon.

There, they rest their Nail. Hands now empty, they turn them to the hidden clasps under their silver pauldrons. The right clasp is loosened first, and with that release their cloak slides off their shoulder, leaving the pale metal to lay on their shell, only their own wing-cloak separating the cold piece and their void. The soft fabric pools at their feet and they take a fraction of a second, a split moment, to think that it looks beautiful, to think that they liked the soft feel as the fabric slipped right off, they—

They do not think.

No mind to think.

The left clasp, now unfastened as well, frees the silk. They feel as it glides down their wing-cloak, down the small of their back, their arm, feel as it barely brushes against their thigh and calves.

They shiver, nothing but the slightest of trembles, something like a small storm beginning somewhere in the back of their mind and they close their eyes beneath their mask, taking in the sensation of the silk.

As soon as it comes, it goes, and the pauldrons are a cool weight on their shoulders. They lift them off, a swift and familiar motion, and place them on the stand in front of them.

They shift minutely and crouch down, looking at the silvery cloak spilled on the floor like water from one of their Mother’s flower vases.

They reach out and grasp it, the silken and chilly feel calming the turbulence in their shell. They resist lifting it to their face, resist burrowing into it, resist rubbing the soft material against their mask like a new-born grub.

They tighten their hold on it, just a bit, just enough that it wouldn’t slip from their grip to lay splayed on the floor once again and they gracefully rise.

They look at the stand. They know they should have rested the cloak there first, before their armour. It would take some manoeuvring to lay it properly, smoothly, on the mannequin.

They wrap and clasp it instead around their neck, once again, over their wing-cloak.

It gives off a feeling of safety, for some unknown reason, to have themself covered, hidden, shielded.

Finally, one last piece.

They turn their thoughts—

No—

Not thoughts.

_No mind to think._

Attention.

They turn their attention to their chestplate.

It is the most complex of their armour pieces, about a dozen plates settled over each other, melted and secured in place. It is not a heavy weight, though it may look like it. It isn’t lightweight either. It’s tight, but not constricting, and the press is welcome, it snuggly holds their form, it feels safe, feels good--

It’s not a necessary piece to wear.

In the Palace, at the very least.

They wear it when they spar with the Kingsmoulds, with the Great Knights, with their Father, on the rare occasion. When going out, into the City or the Gardens or Deepnest to visit their sister—

The chestplate is not a necessary piece to wear in the Palace.

_No will to break._

It is the one indulgence they allow themself. The weight and the cold support, the secure tightness, holding them together, not letting them come apart, letting their chest to melt away, the void of their shell to break and spill and leave them open, reveal that maybe, maybe there was something inside, that their heart pulsed and their soul ached—

The last clasp comes undone.

They grasp the chestplate. They pause, holding it like they’re contemplating the weight of it. The coldness of the metal and the sturdiness of the shape, the ridges of the interconnected plates.

They pull it off, gently and practiced, pull it out from beneath their cloak and carefully secure it around the chest of the mannequin.

They look at the stand, wearing their armour. Their pauldrons, their cuirass, their vambraces and their gauntlets. It’s made in their image, the exact replica of their grown-up body, missing only its head and legs. It’s made of shellwood, pale and cold, sturdy.

Unyielding.

Pure.

They blink at it, blink back a wave of dark clouds roiling in their mask.

They turn in a swift and steady move, hands grasping at nothing under their cloak. Exiting the small armoury, they find themself in the middle of their bedroom, lost. They try to remember the last order they received, their routine, the next assignment they must complete.

Their Father had ordered them to rest.

Rest.

Rest and sleep, when they hadn’t even done much, done anything for that matter, all day.

Their Father is out of the Palace more and more these days, errand after meeting after discussions after more errands and meetings. The Great Knights too, out protecting the City, the borders, providing aid to the realms of their Kingdom.

Had they been the Heir Apparent, they too would have been out, protecting and helping.

They are only a weapon.

A flawed weapon.

A broken, defective thing.

A _failure—_

The grab at the edges of their cloak, mask down-cast, body bent and they gasp, a wheezing and quiet sound.

_No voice to cry suffering_

Their grip shifts sharply, bunching up the sides of the silk and their wing-cloak and holding them close to their chest, as if to pull them inside, absorb them, hide themselves, hide their flaws, hide their heart—

It hurt but it didn’t—

_It hurts_

_It hurts?_

_Why does it hurt?_

_It doesn’t hurt_

_It doesn’t_

_But why does it feel like it does?_

_Why does it feel like it hurts?_

_It hurts but it doesn’t_

Their void isn’t leaking, they know, they know, they haven’t sparred, haven’t fought, _haven’t damaged themselves but it hurt—_

They crumble to the floor, knees not quite crashing against the pale marble, against the pale light spilling onto the floor and half across their folded legs, the shadows of their room covering them, the shadow of their cloak shielding them.

They wheeze again, breaths rattling their chest. They hurt, inside, somewhere inside, but they weren’t wounded, why did they hurt so?

Their head was so heavy, their mask so stuffy. They try to lift their head and they lift their head, they look at the ceiling as if wishing for an answer and they let their mask fall against their chest. They look across the room, to their bed and they long for it but they are repulsed by it and they turn to the windows, the singular white pillar separating the doorway to the balcony, standing tall and covered in white, white vines and white flowers and white engravings and white leaves.

It offers its shadow like a door to an abyss. An abyss not like their birthplace, but a respite against the light that now is overwhelming, that pale glow that surrounds them everywhere, every time, every _day every hour every second—_

_Born of God and Void_

They crawl on hands and knees, silken cloak draped over them and trailing on the floor, soundless but present, they crawl into the tall and encompassing darkness, still too light, still not enough, but _better, so much better_

It’s in this shadow that they notice it.

A glow

A glow coming not from their surroundings, but from them.

From their mask, a pale, pale, pale glow, their Father’s glow, diminished, absolved, their Father’s gift.

Uncontrolled, a sob rips from their voided throat, raspy but still so so quiet they almost can’t hear it over the roiling thoughts in their head.

_You shall seal the blinding light that plagues their dreams_

They curl up tight, nestled in the shade and the flowers, knees to their chest and their side leaning against the white wall and the soft white petals and white leaves and white stems and they weep.

They are their Father’s child, they are his child, but still they are a failure, still they have defied him and lied to him. They have let him down and they can’t bring themself to confess to their crime, even as they know, even as they feel the day of the Sealing rushing closer and closer every day, feel the weight of their sacrifice and they weight of what would cost them, their Father, their Mother, their sister, Herrah, _the Watcher the Teacher theknightsthekingdomtheirsiblings **e v e r y o n e**_

**_You are the Vessel_ **

They gasp and they sob and black inky tears run down their shell, down into their hands and into their cloak and they’re horrified when they see the black cover the white, when their void spreads into drops on the fabric and they _hurt_

_They **hurt**_

There’s no pain but they hurt there’s pressure in their chest in their head in their shell, _they need air for lungs that don’t_

**_You are the Hollow Knight_ **

They claw at their glowing mask, at their face, their horns, they want to stop the tears, stop the rasping breaths they can’t control, the thoughts, the thoughts _that won’t stop **roaring—**_

They shove their face against the wall of flowers and they force their breaths to slow.

**_In_ **

_Out_

_In_

Out

Air, chilly but not cold, not frigid, just present.

It takes them so long and at the end their mask and void feels stuffier still, warm even.

Though they still breathe heavily, they’re calmer.

They lift their head from the soft spot they shoved it into, and look around the room, trying to find a distraction. Their eyes land on the bed, and there’s a fleeting thought of maybe hauling themself onto it, to sleep or to rest or to just lay, but once again they feel so apathetic of it, so lethargic that they just don’t.

There is small basket placed close to their closet, where dirty or worn cloaks are usually place by them for the royal attendants to take and clean. They look at the splotches on their cloak, the void soaking through the material, and they know from experience that this one is beyond saving.

They sigh, deeply, and they close their eyes, sagging against the wall of plants, hidden in the pale shadows of their pillar.

Still enchanted by its soft watery feel, they rub the silk of their cloak. They give in to their instincts and nuzzle against the delicate flowers and the silvery silk and feel themself slowly calm. They rest there, eyes closed and breath steady.

Seconds pass and they lift their head slowly, and look at the spot where their head had been.

They gently pluck a flower from its entwined spot, and then another and another.

One stem over the other, pale green and smooth, careful not to squish them, to break them, following from memory the motions of their Mother.

They twist them around, ever so gentle and watchful, they pull more and more as they reach the ends of stems and the bottom of the wall is cleaned of them and their head is empty and their heart still and their breathing even.

Then, they rise.

Clutching at their cloaks with one hand and gently cradling the braid of white pale flowers in the other, they make their way to the balcony. They have to let go of their cloaks, but only briefly, and they lightly grip at the braid with both hands. They look around, searching, and then they glance between the outer wall and their bed and the doorway.

They carefully place the flowers there, to sit and rest amongst the others, safely secured as they pull and twist the vines and stems around, half hiding the braid and half supporting it.

When they are satisfied, they step back, give it one more fleeting glance and step back into their room. They unclasp their silver cloak and look at it, considering. They look at the basket and the silk and then once again their bed.

They fold it.

They go around their room, finally placing it where they consider its place to be, and settle into their bed.

As they pull their blanket over their head, they steal one more glance at the braid of flowers and allow themselves the thought that maybe, maybe, it will remain hidden to everyone but their own eyes, a gift of their own, a thing of their own, a comfort.

_End._

**Author's Note:**

> Hope you enjoyed! 
> 
> If you did, please don't hesitate to leave a comment, they absolutely make my day!!
> 
> Thank you for reading!


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